


they don't write songs for you

by squireofgeekdom



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: After Megatron, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Introspection, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 7, implied/ambiguous grey-aro Ultra Magnus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-21 23:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13751865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squireofgeekdom/pseuds/squireofgeekdom
Summary: "If it’s not the stuff of songs, if none of it was ever the stuff of songs, if none of it ever could be -It shouldn’t hurt like this."Ultra Magnus, in the aftermath, trying to find words for feelings that don't have a song.(And the choir of friends that will sing along anyway.)





	they don't write songs for you

**Author's Note:**

> Some Ultra Magnus thoughts that have been kicking around my brain since LL7, that I finally figured out a good vehicle for - songs and music.

They don’t write songs for you.

They never have, really. Ultra Magnus has appeared in one or two wartime drinking songs, but - there’s a difference between songs  _ about  _ you and songs  _ for  _ you. 

Maybe ‘for’ is the wrong word. For - well, you suppose it could be read to mean a song written with  _ you,  _ specifically, in mind. You’d never dream of asking for that. 

It would be - you don’t know if it would  _ help _ , exactly. But it seems - you wish there was a song that was written in the same spirit of what you'd felt. A song that said, yes, we understand, what you felt is worth the weight of music. A song  _ for _ you in that way. If you knew a feeling like yours had been in someone else as well, maybe you’d feel less - alone.  Less  _ wrong _ .  

It feels like something you  _ should  _ be able to find.

The former Enforcer of the Autobots and the former Leader of the Decepticons - it sounds like the foundation of  - something dramatic. Operatic. The fodder for songs that would last across centuries.

You suppose it could be, if you were willing to lie. 

But how do you write songs about debating the Autobot code, or - paperwork, or quiet nods at poetry night, or casually finished sentences, or - 

If it’s the stuff of songs, it’s none you’ve found.

\---

Swerve gives you a message from Verity, and another dataslug, apparently all of the Earth music since you were last there. 

It surprises you a little, in its kindness. You would suspect it to be a joke, but there’s something genuinely earnest, almost worried, on Swerve’s face when he gives it to you.

And it is filled with music. So, so much music.

(And not just a thousand repeats of the same song, as you’d half-feared.)

Verity sends music as well - a mixtape of songs she thought you’d like, along with her letter. You listen to it once, by yourself, and then the second time with Ten, who certainly seems to enjoy it, bobbing his head along to the music while he paints. 

You’re not entirely certain of the reasoning behind each of Verity’s song choices - though you can sense something of her usual sense of humor in choosing ‘I fought the law (and the law won)’ - but you do enjoy the variety of music she’s provided you.

You listen to it over and over, listening for what she sees in you.

You haven’t told her as much as you should - certainly not about Minimus. You justify it to yourself by saying that it’s something she deserves to hear in person, but if you’re honest, you have no idea when the two of you will be together again. 

Maybe you’re just afraid of never hearing ‘Uncle Magnus’ again.

\---

You destroyed what you’d written about - him, about  _ whatever _ that had been - when you got the armor back. Part of you wishes you hadn’t, maybe if you had the old words, you could see it clearly, you could find where the lie was, you could yank it out from the cracks between the letters. 

More than that, maybe if you could see the old words you could find new words, the right words that would let you understand the pain, that would let you find the song.

(He’d know the words. If you had cracked open your skull and given him your brain, pried open your chest and given him your spark, if he had seen the inside of you the way you see it - he could have put it into words, because he knows how to craft words, pull them apart and lift them up and make them sing. He would have known.)

You should be able to find the words. It’s not as though there aren’t enough of them. There are so many songs, with so many stories about so many - people. And some of them feel right, for a moment, before the echoing melody fades out inside, or it feels like one refrain fits while another jars away.

It’s not as though you’ve never read any of your spark-brother’s more -  _ romantic _ poetry - though it’s certainly more uncomfortable now, knowing the person so many of the words were written about.

There are moments - whole days, even - where you believed yourself capable of that kind of feeling, where the words were almost in tune. But most days they feel just - off, by a beat, at best.

\---

Cyclonus shows up at your door.

“Tailgate,” He begins, “Was inquiring whether we were going to resume our poetry readings. I believe Rung expressed interest as well. I noted that our schedules were clear two days from now, at around 2700, if you would be willing,”

_ Our  _ poetry readings.

Like you had ever been more than an audience member, a sideshow at best. 

(You had been persuaded to read a few of your lines, on rare, late occasion. He hadn’t said anything, simply nodded when you finished, and it felt like an entire auditorium had erupted into applause before you.)

_ Liar. _

It had always been his stage. His and Cyclonus’s, though in your mind it will always be  _ his _ first.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to prepare anything recently.” You say.

“I am certain one of your older pieces would -” Cyclonus starts, but you continue right over him.

“I am afraid I will be unable to attend,” you say, “please tell Tailgate and Rung that I hope they enjoy the reading.”

You close the door.

\---

Even now, there aren’t songs for you. 

Oh, there are songs about losing - people. About being left. About hating someone who had once been - something. 

But none of them are  _ right.  _

So many of them assume - specifics, about what he’d once been. 

(It would be so much easier if you could point to specifics. Or would it? You can’t be sure.)

All of it would be easier if you could decide what you feel. (Decide? Understand?)

You thought you’d decided. You thought you knew. But some days the sad songs come on and seep into your struts and reverberate there, more than the songs full of anger, or hate, or betrayal. 

(Also, some of the angry songs try to say that no, the singer never _ really _ cared about the one who left, that they’d lied all along as well - and you can lie to yourself well but not well enough to begin to believe that.)

But the worst part is that all of them are about him leaving _you,_ specifically, and you’re utterly convinced that you didn’t so much as cross his mind in his decision.

Maybe it would be easier if he left  _ you -  _ because you had a falling out, because he found someone else, because… because… because… just so long as he left  _ you.  _ Just so long as for a moment, you were there, you existed, you were a part of - of - 

Just as long as it wasn’t all a lie. 

(But it was. And he’s gone. And there still aren’t songs for you.)

\---

“Magnus. Maaaaagnus. Mags. Magnus.”

“Rodimus.”

“So you are going to come?” Rodimus says, with a grin and what he certainly thinks are puppy dog eyes.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to realign your sensory net. “What - was this, again?”

“Karaoke night!” Rodimus says. “At Swerve’s. It’s going to be fun!”

“Hmm.” You turn over another datapad. 

“You like music, right? This will be totally your thing. Swerve’s got everything.”

“That seems unlikely, given the number of known sentient species who produce music and the limitations of our ship’s data storage systems -”

“Okay, okay, he’s got most Cybertronian and Earth music. So I mean, unless you’re  _ only  _ into, like, Andorian folk tunes -” He grins. “C’mon, we’re getting everyone there.  _ Rung’s _ going to be there, and Drift even persuaded Ratchet to show up. Whole crew bonding.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to interrupt my work to -”

“Oh no you don’t,” Rodimus leans over to look at your datapad. “Drift and I both did our paperwork, and you’ve been flipping the same two pages on this pad for the past ten minutes.”

You quickly tip the datapad such that Rodimus cannot see it.

“Magnus,” Rodimus says, more quietly. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. But you’ve been spending most of your time in here for a while, and - and I think this would be fun.” 

You don’t say anything. You stare at the datapad.

“It’s at 2900.” Rodimus says, standing up from the desk. “Come for a bit? You don’t have to stay. You don’t even have to sing, you can just - listen to Cyclonus and Tailgate sing  _ Power of Love. _ Tailgate’s got it all queued up and everything.”

You haven’t sung - knowingly - in front of anyone but him. 

Not deliberately, just - humming while you work, warbling along to music in the background while you both reviewed medical status reports. It had been an accident, at first - you simply had been working so long you lost track of the fact that he was in the room, but he hadn’t - he hadn’t said anything, and -  

Once he’d complimented your singing voice, and moments later you had both realized you had extremely urgent appointments on opposite ends of the ship. 

_ Liar. _

“I’ll be there,” you say, almost without thinking. Rodimus beams. 

\---

_ Liar Liar Liar. _

You’d expected deception from a Decepticon - from  _ the  _ Decepticon, right up until you hadn’t. 

You expected -

You don’t know what you expected.

(You don’t even know what you hoped.)

But, somewhere, ultimately, honestly, if it had fallen apart, if he had left you; you would have seen  _ that  _ coming.

You knew it couldn’t last.

Megatron was made to sing epic, four million year operatic duets, with one other person and one other person only. 

And you? You sing carols. 

You were never going to be enough. 

If, when this was over, you had fallen apart for - for the opera - that wouldn’t have surprised you.

(There are some things it became incredibly difficult to ignore during the trial. You try not to bitterly hope that the Optimus - no, the Orion Pax of  _ that  _ universe is gone, or lost on the edge of space, or doesn’t give a damn about him, or - 

But you can’t imagine anyone in any universe who doesn’t give a damn about him.)

So what if you’d daydreamed a future where that wasn’t true, so what if you’d glimpsed a faint unending horizon line that continued, steady and wordless? So _ what? _ You knew it was hopeless. You  _ knew _ .

(Look how easily you imagined a future and forgot your purpose. If you admit it to yourself, Rodimus bringing up the Trial was the first you’d thought of it in weeks.)

If it had all fallen apart - well, maybe there’d be songs for you then. At least a few of the notes that don’t fit  _ now  _ would be in tune.

Now? Nothing fits properly

If it’s not the stuff of songs, if none of it was ever the stuff of songs, if none of it ever  _ could _ be - 

It shouldn’t hurt like this. 

The hurt’s supposed to come because it was something big, and grand, and real. That’s what they say. That’s how they know it was true, that’s why it’s worth it to hurt. 

But this isn’t a song, and so it should hurt less and it doesn’t. And you don’t even have eloquent words to describe the pain - words about sparks or longings or distant stars - you just know that it hurts when you listen to the wrong songs, or you see empty spaces on the command deck, or you hear a message chime and you forget, just for a second. It’s nauseating and exhausting and none of it is pretty or poetic - you can’t even attempt to exorcise it with poetry because you  _ don’t have the words _ .

If this is going to consume so - so much of your processor, you should at least have words for it. At least have music to wrap around the hurt and make it more bearable.

That would be just. 

\---

You almost make yourself a liar.

You start to regret your promise to Rodimus as 2900 draws closer, start re-reviewing reports to see if there’s something you might have missed that might, just now, be becoming extremely urgent.

You haven’t.

You wonder what overconfident, spite-fueled spirit of madness or bravery took over you when you said yes. 

Whatever it was, you’d bet it’s all sharp edges and flames.

(So what if you’d had a moment, not even a full daydream, where you thought of standing on stage and singing, the way you sing when you’re really alone, and hearing applause? You knew it was nonsense when it occurred to you.)

So you dither. And 2847 ticks by - the time you should have left, because it takes you eight minutes to walk to Swerve’s and you should arrive five minutes early - and now you’re going to be late, and maybe it is more rude to arrive late to these things, and maybe Rodimus won’t notice, or remember, or - 

You said you would be there, so you’ll be there.

The door to your quarters closes behind you at exactly 2900.

You almost turn around again when the door to Swerve’s opens.

Rodimus is there, sitting in a booth with an arm wrapped around Drift and a drink in his other hand, relaxed, like he’s been there for some time already, Lug and Anode sitting across from the two of them. Brainstorm and Perceptor, up by the makeshift stage, checking some of the wires, and Cyclonus and Tailgate, sitting on the stage as they scroll through a screen, and Chromedome and Rewind behind them. Nautica’s amica group takes up two tables by the stage, including Rung, who looks slightly befuddled to be here, and Swerve is - well, swerving around chairs and wires as he serves drinks.

None of them looks up at you. You could turn and go and let the door close behind you and it would be like you were never there. 

“Magnus!” Swerve says, and he sounds - happy? It’s certainly not the tone of ‘Magnus! I thought you were still off the ship what, no, there’s nothing over  _ there _ , didn’t I hear a report needed to be filed somewhere?’ that you’re more used to.

“Magnus?” Rodimus swivels around. “Magnus!” He says, smiling so wide it could sprain his servos. He presses a quick kiss to Drift’s helm before standing up and jogging over to the door to pull you into the room - a frankly ridiculous image, as he’s hardly half your height. “It got past five till and I thought you might not be coming,” He says with a teasing grin.

Others wave and smile as you make your way into the room. Ten looks up from behind the bar and waves, walking over to join you.

The booth next to Rodimus and Drift is big enough for both of you. Swerve looks at Ten, then looks at you, and says nothing about Ten abandoning his post. 

As promised, moments later Tailgate practically  _ bounces  _ up to the microphone, hand in hand with Cyclonus - who’s walking with as much spring in his step as you’ve ever seen him - to sing ‘The Power of Love’.

It’s not like any music you’ve listened to, not even recordings of concerts. It’s certainly not like any time you’ve sang, yourself, alone, with no other sounds to clutter the music, and not like the rare moments when you sang for  _ him _ . 

Here there’s - so much noise. Not just the feedback as Tailgate and Cyclonus adjust the mics, or  when Anode and Lug go up afterwards and adjust them back. But people shifting in their chairs, and drinking, and - laughing and teasing, applauding and whistling. It’s noise and interruption and chaos and, somewhere in there, it’s its own kind of music.   

And, of course, somewhere in there is where Rodimus manages to convince you to agree to singing. On stage. In front of people. You feel like you should probably remember why you agreed to this - certainly you should remember why you agreed so  _ quickly _ \- but your processor goes completely blank when Swerve’s song ends and Rodimus slaps you on the back and says, “Hey, you’re up!”    

The fact that you are getting up and walking to the stage doesn’t quite seem to register fully in your processor but somehow you end up behind the microphone with the opening strains of a song playing on the speakers. 

The first line of lyrics starts to scroll up the screen and your vocal synthesizer won’t engage. 

Rodimus is watching you, a quizzical expression on his face. Swerve shoots you an encouraging smile and waves his hands in a ‘come on’ gesture.

You’re frozen. You stare at the screen, try to force your vocal synthesizer to engage. The microphone in front of you is mocking you. 

You hear the lyrics. 

It’s not your voice, it’s Rodimus, singing off-key from where he’s seated in his booth. After a bar, he nudges Drift, who joins in and kicks Ratchet under the table until he does as well, as does Swerve, even Ten, not singing but humming delightedly in-tune. Anode follows on enthusiastically, and Lug, and soon the room starts to fill up with the song, in off key voices, slightly out of step. 

You reset your vocal synthesizer. 

You start to sing.

Rodimus - well, you suppose the only word is ‘ _ whoops _ ’ - in delight and claps when he hears you, and then carries right along singing with you, and you’re leading a chorus of off-key, slightly drunk bots in song.

It is, by any objective musical standard, terrible. 

It’s better than anything you could have hoped for. 

\---

It doesn’t feel like a victory.

A victory implies - something to be fought against. And, practically since the moment you set foot in Swerve’s, you haven’t thought about him, or missing words, for a second - it’s only the next day that you even  _ realize  _ that you hadn’t thought about any of it. 

It doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like - hope. Maybe, even, like coming home. 

You pick up a datapad. You have words to put down.

\---

Tailgate answers the door to the habsuite.

“Ultra Magnus! Hi,” Tailgate says, with some surprise as he has to tilt back to look up at you. “How are you?”

“I am well, thank you. I was looking for Cyclonus, is he here?”

“Oh! Of course -  _ Cyclonus! It’s Magnus, _ ” He calls back into the habsuite, then turns back to face you. “Does this mean you’ll be coming back to poetry nights?”

“Er,” You cough. “Yes, that was my intention. If - if Cyclonus still intends to continue them.”

“Oh, of course! It’ll be so nice to have someone else to read, too. He’ll be so happy to hear, he missed -”

“What will I be ‘happy to hear’?” Cyclonus says, leaning over into the doorframe.

“Magnus is coming back to poetry nights! Isn’t that great?”

Cyclonus looks at you for confirmation.

“Yes. I was coming to ask if you still intended to - to hold them.” You say. “I - apologize, for being - short, with you, when you offered - before.”

Cyclonus just looks at you, then nods. “Creative dry spells come to us all. I understand that it can be - frustrating.”  He reaches out and puts a hand on your arm, and you think that means he understands. 

“Thank you,”

“We would be - gratified to have you attend.” Cyclonus says. 

“I would be gratified to rejoin you.” 

\---

And you are.

Cyclonus sends you a day, and a time, and you set a reminder and leave exactly when you are supposed to. 

And you read poetry, your poetry, your words, and Rung smiles and Tailgate claps and Cyclonus doesn’t frown, and somewhere along the line Whirl wanders in to Swerve’s and makes fun of all of you for being nerds but sits next to Tailgate the rest of the night anyway, and Ten sits and says his name after each poem you read, evidently satisfied.

And that feels like coming home, too.

\---

“Mags!” Swerve swivels around as you pass. You stop and step aside.

“Yes?”

“I just heard that we’re sending a report back to Earth tomorrow. Wasn’t sure if you heard.” Swerve says. “I thought you might want to send something back to Verity.”

You got the report. You know the status of the communications system 

The report didn’t mention Verity, of course.

“Thank you for reminding me. I will have a message prepared for tomorrow.” Swerve smiles at you, almost turns away. “I -” You cough as Swerve turns back around to face you. “I was wondering, of the music you sent, if you had - recommendations. Verity sent some - musical selections, with her message.” You clarify. “It feels - fair, to return the favor.”

“Oh!” Swerve says, “Well, I mean, that depends on what  _ she  _ likes - what sort of stuff did she send you?”

“Well -” you begin.

The conversation ends up taking you back to Swerve’s bar, walking and talking all the way, and even though the conversation well and truly diverges from your initial question, you still leave Swerve’s with several recommendations you are pleased with. Those, along with a couple of songs that had been coalescing in the back of your mind, are almost the beginnings of a list. You’ll try listening to them with Ten, see what he thinks.

You know what has to be said before you reach your habsuite, well before you sit down to write your message. If you’re honest, Verity has felt just as much family as Dominus had, for as utterly different as your relationships with the two have been. 

You want to be honest with her. 

If you can’t find the right words for the past, if you cannot find the right words for anything else, you will find the right words for this. 

\---

It is impossible not to smile when you read Verity’s response.

She wants  _ pictures.  _

It’s hard to imagine why you were ever scared to tell her. 

She’s sent pictures - mostly of her and Springer, some of just one or the other, in unfamiliar landscapes - frozen plains with bright shimmering lights in the sky, steep stone coastlines over crashing waves, strange tall plants with spiky leaves, bright red spires of rock - ones that you use Earth databases to match to various locations in North America.

There’s a postscript as well. ‘Hey, I’m still calling you Uncle Magnus, unless you’d rather I said Uncle Minimus instead.’

You grab a datapad and begin a response. You will make the words for this. 

You’ll find the words for yourself, for all of them. You’ll find them even if you have to make them yourself. 

So what if he knew how to sculpt and carve and craft words that sing of their own accord? So what if there are billions of words and none of them yours? 

If you have to spend another four million years hammering together words, if you sing a thousand disjointed melodies - so what? If that’s what it takes - that’s what it takes. You will create something  _ right. _

And you know you’ll have a whole choir behind you.

They don’t write songs for you. But you can write your own. 


End file.
